Complaining about our house has become somewhat of a past time for me. We bought it 3 years ago from an elderly couple who stopped maintaining it sometime in the late 80s. Picture it-- different patterns of wallpaper in each room. The bathrooms were crumbly and mildewy. The kitchen was dark and closed off, the list goes on. But it was on the end of a cul-de-sac, and it was next door to the brand new elementary school. It's our little money pit, but at least our kids can walk to school! I think I complain because deep down I think we are really lucky and it's easier to make conversation with someone by griping about how expensive new windows are, instead of telling them how in the evening the sun slants through those windows and takes my breath away and gives me a quiet moment in the dinnertime/bedtime chaos.
Our neighbors just moved yesterday, and it strangely affected me way more than it should have. They lived there for 16 years. We only knew them for 3 years, but we will really miss them. They were a sweet family with two grown children. The mother would complain about the maintenance and upkeep of the house, and she said and her husband were done with taking care of the house-- they wanted a condo where it was all taken care of.
Their house sold quickly, and I spoke with her a couple days before the move. She started crying and was occasionally regretting the decision. My heart broke. I saw them drive away yesterday for the last time and she briefly paused in front of the house. She raised two great kids there. They learned how to ride their bikes on the driveway, she took pictures of them on their first days of school on the front steps, they had wiffle ball games and cookouts in the front yard.
I am of course, projecting. Our kids are still so little and we have so much more time in this house, but it just made me appreciate our life here. It's not perfect, but we have made it our home. It's easier to complain, but we are very lucky to be here.
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